


The Rites of Spring

by bunnyspek



Series: Death Has No Hold on Love [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnyspek/pseuds/bunnyspek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve pulled himself up on instinct, pouring the same lightening speed into his legs that had propelled him down these streets in bare feet over seventy years ago. “Bucky!” he screamed, so loudly it scraped the sides of his throat. “Bucky!”<br/>“Steve, stop!” Sam barked.<br/>Steve only barely kept from plowing Sam over. “He's getting away!”<br/>“He's running from you! You chase him, he's only gonna bury himself deeper!” Sam pressed a restraining hand onto Steve's chest. “Let me go after him. Steve,” Sam snapped. “Do you trust me?”<br/>All of Steve's furious energy collapsed, leaving him slumped and hollow looking. “I do.”<br/>Sam clutched at the side of his face. “I'll bring him back,” he said. He took three running steps and was in the air. <br/>Steve watched him soar down the city streets, sun glinting off his wings, and fell to his knees. <br/>It wasn't until he felt Natasha's hand on his shoulder that he realized he was crying.</p>
<p>                              As it turns out, finding the Winter Soldier was the easy part. Finding Bucky Barnes is going to take some work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The bar was dim and grimy, a thick layer of dust turning the light a sickly amber color. He sat at the end of the bar, gloved hands wrapped around the glass he stared into blankly. A girl who looked too young to be drinking herself washed glasses behind the counter, another man sitting across from her and watching. Above them a grainy tv buzzed slightly as a news anchor sat at his desk and smiled toothily into the camera.

“And the banquet also received some superpowered guests. Avengers Tony Stark and Thor arrived in style as always, bringing along Stark Industries CEO Virginia Potts and Nobel-prize winning astrophysicist Jane Foster. Steve Rodgers and Sam Wilson, better known as Captain America and Falcon, also attended. The two caused quite a stir when they first publicly came out, shortly after the SHIELD disaster in Washington, and have both been very vocally active in the LGTB community since. Rodgers had a rare comment about his relationship last night.”

“He's just- he's one of the best things that has ever happened to me. I was so lost, in this brand new world, and Sam was one of the first people to make it feel like home. Like it was real. Not just some strange place I'd been visiting for a few years.”

“Faggots,” the man next to him muttered. A voice echoed around the gloved man's head – _hey. Why don't you show a little respect?_

“You say something?” he growled instead.

The man down the bar rolled his eyes and leaned over the bar, grinning predatorily at the girl. “So, sweetheart,” he drawled. “What time you get off tonight?”

The girl looked up. The man at the end of the bar recognized her expression, even from where he sat staring into his drink. It was the look a wild animal has when it first realizes it has been trapped.

“I gotta lock the place up,” she said.

“After that.”

“It takes a while.”

“I can wait.” His hand reached out across the table to catch her wrist. 

It never made it.

The man with the gloves on his hands had snapped the glass in his hands down the bar so that it smashed on the other man's wrist. Glass and liquor rained down with a strange clattering sound to the counter. He was standing, slowing pulling off his gloves.

“What the fuck?” the other man spat, clutching his wrist.

“She's not interested,” he said, calmly. He tossed his gloves down on the counter, flexing silver fingers against normal before balling them into fists.

The other man staggered upright, limping the few steps forward till they were face to face. They stood for a moment, staring each other down, sizing each other up. The man with the bleeding wrist threw the first punch. The man with the silver fist let it break across his face without flinching, nothing changing in his big dark eyes. Then he flashed three quick hits – gut gut face- and the other man was down.

“I don't like you,”the silver-fisted man hissed, crouched over the man who whimpered and bled on the floor. “Even if you weren't able to pick up on basic body language, you still just seem like a shitty person.” He leaning in closer, considering, wiped some of the blood off the other man's face with cold silver fingers. “Maybe it's your face.”

He sat back, feet planted on the man's wrists. He felt one of them give way under his thick soled boot and the man screamed in pain. 

“I'm going to get up now,” he said. “I suggest you find yourself a new bar.”

He stood, taking care to roll his feet across the man's fingers as he did. The other man pushed himself backwards frantically, scrambling away from the dark haired man with the silver fist and the empty eyes, pulling on his gloves in front of the bar. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he spat, terror in his eyes.

The dark haired man sighed, dropping a few bills on the bar from his wallet. “You know,” he said. “I've been asking myself the same question.”

 

* * *

 

The early morning sunlight streamed just over where Bruce lay pressed up against the window to land lightly on Natasha, turning the bare skin of her shoulders and face to a pale gold and setting her hair aflame. He sat up on one elbow, watching her steady breathing, the peace on her sleeping face.

“You're staring,” she murmured, not opening her eyes.

He smiled, reaching to brush a strand of hair out of her face. “You're beautiful.”

She blinked open her eyes, a soft smile spreading across her face. “Good morning,” she said, stretching forward to kiss him. 

“How long have you been awake?” he said quietly.

She shrugged, shifting closer to him so that her shoulder pressed up against his bare chest. “Not long.”

He kissed her again, feeling her lips curling up into a grin under his. “I could get used to waking up like this,” he said breathlessly. She laughed, curling up into his chest and tucking the top of her head under his chin. His hand came up to stroke her hair.

“We should get up,” he said finally.

She pushed back, a slightly impish look on her face. “Not yet,” she said, rolling across the bed to fumble over the side. She found what she was looking for and rolled back, tossing a magazine onto his chest. “Here,” she said. “Read this. I'll go make us breakfast.”

She slid out from under the covers, scooping up her worn robe from the floor and slipping it on. Bruce watched her appreciatively. 

“Sit,” she said. “Read the magazine. I'll be right back.”

 

Steve heard the sounds of breakfast crackling down the hall and turned to head for the kitchen, towelling off his hair as he went. He stopped just inside the doorway, surprised to see Natasha standing at the stove in a gray robe and bare feet, humming softly to herself.

“I didn't know you cooked.”

She didn't start or turn, just shrugged, as though his remark had been a continuation of a previous conversation.

“Only on special occasions,” she said with a grin. “Sit. I'll make you some.”

Steve did. He could already feel his muscles relaxing, only minutes after a twenty mile run, but there was enough of a twinge that he appreciated the relaxation of sitting. He remembered with a wince the days when he would collapse, muscles aching, after any heavy exertion.  _“Christ, Stevie,”_ Bucky had said.  _“Why do you do it if you know you won't be able to move after?”_

“What's the special occasion?” Steve said, opening up the paper. “Oh, Tony made the front page again, he'll be proud.”

He flipped to the styles section and began ripping out the pictures he found interesting to tuck away in his studio later on. It was a lazy Monday morning. Upstairs he could hear the occasional shriek as the Barton clan prepared itself for school.

Footsteps gently padded down the stairs and a sleepy-looking Clint appeared, baby Nate chewing on one shoulder.

“Morning,” he said, shuffling over towards the fridge. “Mind if we borrow some milk? We're all out upst-”

He stopped dead, staring at Natasha, who was distinctly avoiding his gaze. A wide, shit-eating grin crawled up his face.

“You had sex last night!”

Steve's eyebrows shot up his forehead. Natasha said nothing, lips pursed like she was trying to fight a smile.

“You did!” Clint crowed. “You got well and truly fucked last night.”

“For gods sakes, Clint, you're holding your child in your arms,” Steve said.

Clint shrugged. “He can't understand me.” He turned to the baby on his hip. “Guess who got laid last night, buddy?”

Steve got up and plucked the child from Clint's arms, which only freed him to start dancing around Natasha like a lunatic.

“I can kill you with this spatula,” she deadpanned.

“I have known this woman for over a decade,” Clint said to Steve triumphantly, pushing up to sit on the counter, “and the only times I have ever seen her cook is after a particularly good-”

“No need to elaborate,” Steve said hurriedly. “I can guess.”

Shuffling feet could be heard in the hall and Pietro, bed-headed and sleepy eyed, meandered through the kitchen. He paused, blinking hard at the stove.

“Why is Romanoff cooking?”

“Because she got laid last night,” Clint said smugly.

Such a similar grin to the one Clint had sported earlier crept across Pietro's face that Steve wondered for a moment whether they could actually be related.

“Congratulations,” Pietro drawled.

“Tell me everything,” Clint said. “Size, stamina-”

“Color,” Pietro interjected.

Natasha leveled them with a glare that had made terrorists cry. “I don't kiss and tell.”

“That's boring,” Clint said. “Tell me tellmetellme.”

“Isn't your wife waiting for you upstairs?” Natasha said, smacking Clint with the spatula.

“I am flighty and irresponsible and she knows this,” he said.

“I've always wondered about Banner,” Pietro said musingly. “How much of the other guy makes an appearance in the bedroom?” Natasha chucked an egg at his head without turning. Pietro's hand flashed up to pluck it out of the air.

Natasha slid a plate of eggs across the table to Steve, still bouncing baby Nate on his knee.

“Where's mine?” Pietro said.

“You don't get any,” she said coolly.

Steve smirked at Pietro and dug in. The eggs were delicious, light and airy.

“You even think about nabbing a piece of my bacon and I'll have you running drills till you collapse,” Steve warned. Pietro pouted.

“Don't worry, kid, Laura made you a stack of pancakes,” Clint said, hopping off the counter. “Alright. I got to take some milk up to my wife and then track down a demigod.”

“Bruce and I are taking a sick day,” Natasha said airily, scooping up the remaining plates and sashaying out of the room. Barton oohed and Natasha flipped him off gracefully before disappearing into Bruce's suite.

“Have fun,” Steve called after her. Pietro pulled Nate onto his own lap, making puppy dog eyes at Steve.

“Can I take a sick day too?”

 

“We need to talk.”

Thor whirled around with a curse. Clint stood in the shadows, glaring at the demigod. Thor sighed.

“Barton. I am off to meet Jane at the moment, can it-”

“No, it can't wait. You've been avoiding me for weeks now.”

Thor nodded slightly, looking around. The day was in full swing, and most of the base's other occupants were running around in either the training rooms or labs. Voices could be heard down the hall. “Can we take this outside?”

It was a gorgeous day, blue sky, sunshine, and mild enough that neither Clint in full Kevlar or Thor in jeans and a tee-shirt was uncomfortable.

“Alright,” Thor said. “Out with it.”

“You need to tell people about your brother,” Clint said bluntly.

Thor looked stonefaced.

“Look, you asked me not to say anything and I didn't,” Clint said. “I figured you were right, you know? We had enough to deal with, what with Bruce coming back and Pietro readjusting to, well, life, but its been months. If your brother is out there, we need to figure out how to deal with that. Because we will have to deal with it. Soon.”

“I just – I need to know. If it's true.”

“The queen of Hell told you herself!” Clint snapped. “Let's just assume that she knows what she's talking about.”

“He hasn't done anything,” Thor said.

“Yet,” Clint said grimly. “Look. I'll give you a week or I'm telling Tony and Steve myself. You may have forgotten how dangerous he is, but-” Clint's hand drifted almost unconsciously over his heart- “I sure haven't.”

“I know,” Thor murmured. “You're right.”

“One week,” Clint said, turning to head back to the base. “Tell Jane I said hi.”

 

“Again,” Steve called, arms crossed over his chest.

Wanda sighed heavily, repositioning herself across from Vision and Pietro.

“Go,” Steve said.

Her brother came at her first, zipping into invisibility until she threw out an ankle high red blast which caused him to stumble and fall. She didn't have time to finish him off before Vision came soaring down from above and she had to shield herself with another burst of red energy that sent the android soaring backwards.

“Guard your back,” Steve called, and she whirled around to see her brother blurring towards the target she was supposed to be guarding. She sent a wave of energy to lift it into the air – and felt Vision crash into her back, sending her tumbling to the ground.

They landed softly, Vision hovering inches above her, thoroughly distracting Wanda from the exercise.

“You need to look behind you,” Vision murmured. Wanda reached up to stroke his cheek.

“I can't really say I mind the end result,” she said.

An irritated cough sounded above them. They looked up to see Pietro and Steve glaring down at them.

“You lost,” Pietro said grouchily.

Wanda let Vision help her to her feet, sticking her tongue out at her brother. _Mature,_ he thought at her. She mentally flipped him off.

“You're too focused on one thing,” Steve said. “You need to learn to trust your powers to see things for you. I've seen you do it before, just trusting the magic.” He shrugged. “Maybe I should blindfold you.”

“What's going on in here?”

Steve's face lit up, his whole energy changing into something lighter as he turned to beam at Sam making his way across the floor. Wanda smiled for a moment at the feel of it.

“Hey,” Steve said.

“Hey yourself,” Sam said, reaching Steve and kissing him lightly. “What are we doing?”

“Steve wants me to fight blind,” Wanda said sullenly.

Sam nodded. “That's probably not a bad idea.”

Wanda huffed.

“No, think about it,” Sam said. “You spend so much time trying to keep all that extraneous info your powers give you out, to focus on just one thing. But in a fight, that constant awareness gives you your edge.”

“Blindfolding you might force you to use that sixth sense more,” Steve finished.

“Or she might wind up randomly blasting the walls,” Pietro said dryly. Wanda glared at him.

“We can try it later,” Steve said. “We've been at this all day. You're all slipping. Pietro, your sister should never have been able to trip you up like that.”

_Ha,_ Wanda thought victoriously.

_I still won,_ her brother replied irritably. To Steve, he merely nodded.

_Let's go,_ Wanda thought to Vision. _I'm hungry._

She pulled him off towards the exit and kitchens, leaving Steve, Sam, and Pietro alone in the training room.

“I'm going out,” Pietro declared.

“Where?” Steve said.

“I want a drink. I have my comm.” And with that, he was gone.

“I missed you this morning,” Sam said, wrapping his arms around Steve's waist. Steve pressed a kiss to his temple.

“I figured you could use the sleep.”

“You know I didn't mind.”

Steve nodded. “Still.”

It had been a horrifying screaming nightmare, the kind Steve hadn't had since before the Hydra fiasco, and he'd woken up in a cold sweat, feeling nothing but terror and a certainty that his lungs were freezing in his chest. He couldn't remember how he'd survived them before he had Sam's warm arms to bring him back to himself. Even with Sam holding him, he had spent two hours shivering with ice in his veins and Peggy's voice in his ear.

Sam yawned. “Well, now I could use some coffee. You wanna go out? There's that cute little shop not far from here, we could steal one of Tony's cars and go for a ride.”

Steve just beamed at him, happiness swelling in his chest, and the phrase that had been waiting on the tip of his tongue for the past month finally slipped out. “I love you.”

Sam stared for a moment, just long enough for Steve to question and regret every single decision he'd ever made in his actually exceptionally long life that had lead him to this moment, and then he smiled. “Did you just say you loved me?” he said finally.

A hot flush was pounding under Steve's cheeks. Sam laughed, cupping his face with his hands. “You love me,” he said again.

“Not a problem, is it?” Steve said. Sam just smiled.

“Problem? I highly doubt anyone would call it that.” He kissed him softly. “I love you too.”

Steve laughed, relaxing. “That's a relief.”

“Mm-hmm. I imagine it is.”

They didn't say anything else for a while after that.

 

The music was loud and giving Camilla a headache. So, for that matter, was her friend, who had disappeared into the crush of bodies what felt like an hour ago and hadn't been seen since.

Camilla decided to give up searching for her and pushed her way out of the bodies and off the dancefloor into the much quieter bar.

“I'll take whatever you have on tap,” she told the bartender, collapsing onto a stool. The man next to her tilted clear blue eyes at her questioningly.

“Not thrilled with the dancing, I see?”

His voice was thick with an accent, too heavy to be a play. It was a nice accent, a nice voice, quiet in a way that made her want to listen. She shrugged.

“Not thrilled with all the sweaty strangers dancing puts you in physical contact with.”

He smirked, nodded. “I like dancing,” he said. “But then, I just like to move. My sister, she says she's never actually seen me sit still. Says I'm always moving something.”

It was true – his right hand was busily spinning a coin between his fingers impossibly fast.

“I like sitting still,” Camilla said.

He shrugged. He was dressed simply but well – a white tee-shirt under a black sports coat, all obviously high end without being flashy, bleached hair shaggy without being messy.

“So where are you from?” she said, well and truly intrigued at this point.

“Upstate,” he said with another smirk. It was a terribly attractive smirk.

“Where before upstate?”

“Sokovia,” he said.

“The flying country?”

“We're also the number one producer of berry preserves in the world. No one ever mentions that,” he said.

“Was that why you moved? The flying, not the berries.”

He shrugged. “Sort of. Mostly for work.”

“Where do you work?”

He smiled mysteriously. “It doesn't really matter.”

Camilla raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like something a mafia hitman would say.”

He laughed. “Do I seem like a mafia hitman?”

“No, you seem like a Russian equivalent of the mafia hitman.”

“I'm not a hit man,” he said, eyes sparkling.

“Very convincing,” she said.

The bartender slid her drink across the counter.

“So,” the man next to her said. “You don't like dancing, you don't like strangers. Why are you here?”

“My friend brought me,” she said.

“Ahh,” he said.

“Tale as old as time, right?” Camilla laughed. “And now, typically, she's completely disappeared.”

“That doesn't seem right,” he said. Camilla shrugged.

“I can't really say I mind right now.”

The man smiled, lips parting enchantingly as he did, and Camilla felt herself leaning closer -

A loud, urgent alarm sounded from his pocket.

“Fuck,” he moaned, pulling back and taking out his phone. “Really, Captain? Now?”

“What is going on?” she said.

“Fuck,” he said again. “Listen, I have to go.”

“Really,” she drawled coldly. He huffed, bit his lip. She felt very irritated by how very endearing it was.

“Trust me,” he said. “It's life and death.”

“You really are a hitman, aren't you?” she said.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” he said. “Look, I really liked talking to you, and – do you know the Stark tower?”

“Everyone knows the Stark tower.”

“Go to the lobby and drop off your phone number for Mr Stark if you want me to have it,” he said. “I'll tell him to watch out for it.”

“You know Tony Stark?” she said, dumbstruck.

He smirked again. “You've heard of the Avengers?”

“Everyone has,” she said.

He grinned, suddenly inches away from her, having moved faster than the eye could see. “I'm Quicksilver.”

And with that, he was gone.

 

“This better be a real fucking scary monster,” Pietro growled into his comm. “I just had to leave a very pretty girl all alone at a dance club.”

“I'm sure she was heartbroken,” his sister drawled back.

“Okay, kids, cut the chatter,” Steve said as the quinjet touched down just outside the tower and the doors opened wide. “Pietro, how long till you-”

Pietro appeared at his shoulder. “Never mind. Stark, what do we got?”

“Another asshole is attacking my tower,” Tony said. “Seriously, I'm done. If I knew having a tower would be this much trouble, I never would have done it.”

Rhodey and Tony were already in the air, swapping lasers with robots who rolled swarmed the streets. They were tall and humanoid, all a little eerily similar to the Iron Man suits, but with none of Tony's flash and polish, and, apparently, no one inside.

Wanda groaned. “I hate robots.”

“What?” Vision said, concerned.

There were no civilians on the street, but the Avengers were disconcertingly outnumbered. Steve looked over at Bruce.

Bruce sighed. “Code green?”

“Looks that way,” Steve said.

Bruce nodded and stepped out of the quinjet before shrugging slightly and exploding into his alter ego.

“I liked that shirt,” Natasha said regretfully, following him out.

Within a minute they were in the heat of battle, lights flashing and smoke slowly filling the square. The Hulk ripped apart machine after machine as Clint and Natasha stabbed them with EMPs.

“Is this Hammer?” Steve yelled, catching the brunt of a robot's arm on his shield.

“Yes,” Tony yelled back. “Can I prove it? No. Is it him? Yes.” He blasted another robot out of the sky, taking great pleasure in melting down its face with his repulsors.

Above them, Vision was tearing robots off the walls of the tower with an ease and grace that seemed almost bored.

A robot turned away from the battle, lurching off down towards where Steve knew civilians were huddled, and he flung his shield like a frisbee, watching it catch the machine at its waist-

“Steve!” Sam screamed.

A metal arm was swinging down towards him. Steve pulled back, falling, knowing it was too late, that the arm was going to connect -

And it was stopped with a loud metal twang.

A dark haired man in a sweatshirt and filthy jeans was standing over him, one metal fist wrapped around the robots arm. He twisted savagely and the arm came off. He tossed it aside carelessly and then punched clean through the robot's chest. It fell with a sad, run down whine, and the man turned, slowly.

“Bucky?” Steve panted.

The man's brown eyes met his steadily.

“Steve.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam clutched at the side of his face. “I'll bring him back,” he said. He took three running steps and was in the air. Steve watched him soar down the city streets, sun glinting off his wings, and fell to his knees.  
> It wasn't until he felt Natasha's hand on his shoulder that he realized he was crying.

_Brooklyn, 1932_

_“Buck, slow down,” Steve panted, jogging to catch up to the dark haired boy bounding along in front of him._

_“No can do, Stevie,” Bucky crowed, practically dancing ahead of the smaller boy. He reached the fire escape and linked his fingers together, lowering them to form a stepping stool for Steve. Steve glared at him but allowed himself to be boosted up, scrambling up the side of the wall to pull himself onto the roof._

_“Alright,” he said, dusting himself off as Bucky's head appeared over the wall. “What's so damn important, Barnes?”_

_“Not yet,” Bucky said. “Sit down.”_

_Steve sat, watching suspiciously as Bucky pulled himself the rest of the way up. “Close your eyes,” Bucky said._

_“Buck-”_

_“Trust me.”_

_Steve closed his eyes, a trembling thrill vibrating low in his stomach. He could hear Bucky moving around the roof, the sound of a box opening and shutting, and then Bucky's footsteps came back and he heard the heavy thud and shuffling sounds of Bucky sitting right in front of him._

_“Open your mouth,” Bucky said quietly._

_He hesitated just a moment before parting his lips. Bucky's fingers were rough with calluses but they brushed his mouth with an almost painful delicacy, and the feel of them was so absorbing that it wasn't till they pulled back that Steve realized that Bucky had placed something in his mouth, something sweet and spongy and soft-_

_His eyes popped open. “Is this cake?”_

_Bucky grinned. “It's gone stale, I know-”_

_“This is cake!” he gasped. “Real cake!”_

_“The baker's wife gave it to me,” Bucky said. “Said it had gone too stale to sell. I told her as long as it had sugar we were sure to enjoy it.”_

_“Oh my god,” Steve said, still chewing. Bucky smirked._

_“Want some more?”_

_“There's more?”_

_They arranged themselves on the edge of the roof, legs thrown over the side and tangled together, cake planted between them as they stared across the city up into the night sky._

_“Someday,” Bucky said determinedly, “nights like this ain't gonna be a luxury anymore. I'm gonna get us out. Set you up in a nice penthouse where you can see the whole city spread before you. Buy you enough pencils that you won't ever have to work with just a nub again, and you can just sit up there and draw the whole damn day, and never have to leave your chair if you don't want to.”_

_“Now that sounds just like me,” Steve said dryly. He knocked his shoulder against Bucky's. “And where will you be? Set up in a nice white house somewhere with some gorgeous dame?”_

_“Naw,” Bucky said. His hand moved through the darkness to twine his fingers with Steve's. “You know where I'll be. Growing old and gray next to you.” His voice grew suddenly serious. “I'm with you till the end of the line.”_

_Steve leaned his head onto Bucky's shoulder. “Yeah,” he said. “Till the end of the line.”_

 

“Bucky,” Steve gasped again, desperately.

Bucky stared down at him, the cool determination his face had previously worn twisting with confusion. “I'm not- I'm sorry,” he said, backing away. “I can't.” And he turned and sprinted down the street.

Steve pulled himself up on instinct, pouring the same lightening speed into his legs that had propelled him down these streets in bare feet over seventy years ago. “Bucky!” he screamed, so loudly it scraped the sides of his throat. “ _Bucky!_ ”

_I'm not going to lose him again._

A winged figure dropped in front of him.

“Steve, stop!” Sam barked.

Steve only barely kept from plowing Sam over. “He's getting away!”

“He's running from you! You chase him, he's only gonna bury himself deeper!” Sam pressed a restraining hand onto Steve's chest. “Let me go after him.”

Steve looked him in the eyes for the first time. “What?”

“You're obviously too much for him to deal with,” Sam said, clinging to every inch of Steve attention. “Let me go after him. I can stop him. I can bring him _home.”_

Steve whimpered slightly, gazing over Sam's shoulder. Sam could feel Steve's muscles straining, knew that if Steve decided to make after Bucky again, Sam couldn't stop him.

“Steve,” Sam snapped. “Do you trust me?”

Steve's eyes flickered back and forth over Sam's shoulder, between the space where Bucky had disappeared once more and the soft brown eyes of the man he loved.

“Do you trust me?” Sam said.

All of Steve's furious energy collapsed, leaving him slumped and hollow looking. “I do.”

Sam clutched at the side of his face. “I'll bring him back,” he said. He took three running steps and was in the air. Steve watched him soar down the city streets, sun glinting off his wings, and fell to his knees.

It wasn't until he felt Natasha's hand on his shoulder that he realized he was crying.

 

Sam winged his way in panicked circles over the city streets, eyes sharp for glints of silver flashing beneath him as Tony's interface system built into his goggles analyzed targets from a distance.

He saw Barnes at the same time the computer did, a red square lining up over the detected threat sprinting towards deeper civilian territory. Sam dove, skidding to a landing in the middle of the street, feet scrabbling for purchase, arm flexed tight to keep his wings from snapping off his arms. It looked a hell of a lot more impressive than it felt, though, and Sam's quarry halted in his tracks.

“James Barnes?” Sam called.

Barnes stepped out into the street, glaring sullenly out from under his cap.

“My name is Sam Wilson,” Sam continued.

“I know who you are,” Barnes growled.

“Okay, good,” Sam said. “I'm not here to hurt you. Do you know that?”

Barnes nodded, slowly.

“I'm here to help,” Sam said. “I can get you food, shelter-”

“I can't go back.”

“Go back where?”

Barnes tilted his head back towards the tower. “Back to him.”

“To Steve?”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” Barnes recited, childlike. “I think – I used to call him Stevie.” He shook his head violently. Sam couldn't tell if he was attempting to erase the memory or bring it into better light.

“We don't have to go back to Steve if you don't want to,” Sam said cautiously. “We can go somewhere else.”

“Where?”

Sam shrugged. “We can find somewhere. I have a place in DC.”

Barnes looked hesitant. “He's not there?”

“Not if you don't want him to be.” Sam heard cameras clicking behind them. “Please, James, let's go somewhere safer.”

“Just you?” Barnes said.

“If that's what you want. I'm going to have to call someone to bring us a car, though. Is that okay?”

“Didn't I try to kill you?”

Sam was startled, by the question itself and its suddenly coherent phrasing. “Twice, actually.”

“Then why are you helping me?”

Sam shrugged. “I'm a superhero, man. Helping people is what I do.”

Barnes nodded. “He trusts you?”

Sam didn't need to ask who _he_ was. “He does.”

“Good.” Barnes sighed. “I don't remember much. But I remember that I trust him.”

“That's good,” Sam said, gently, coaxingly. “You're gonna come with me?”

“Yeah,” Barnes said. “I'll come with you.”

 

The police circle keeping civilians back had shrunk until only the square in front of Stark towers was still off-limits. A circle of dedicated avengers fans, press, and tourists had gathered to gawk at the sight of the Avengers post-battle.

“I don't understand,” one woman whispered to her husband. “Didn't they win?”

To one side of the square, Iron Man and War Machine stood arguing with police, still in their armor with their faceplates flipped up. On the other, Thor, Quicksilver, and Vision watched tiredly as Scarlet Witch snapped at Hawkeye over a cut on his arm. Quicksilver held a compress to his head, having already been henpecked into health by his sister and Hawkeye before they had turned on each other.

In the center of the square, sitting slumped on the curb, was the Black Widow. One hand rested on the knee of the Incredible Hulk, mortal, wrapped in a blanket, and tearing into a burger. The other hand gently stroked the hair of Captain America, who leaned on her shoulder, his cowl-less face empty and tearstained.

Clint threw up his arms in disgust and stomped over to the first responders to get a bandage. Wanda looked satisfied for a brief moment before glancing over with worry at Steve and Natasha.

Pietro was tapping his foot with pent up energy. “I don't understand what's happening.”

Thor sighed, lowering himself down to sit on the curb. “You heard about Steven and Sam's missing persons case?”

“Yeah,” Pietro said. “Looking for the Winter Soldier, right?”

“They found him.”

“Who did?”

“They did. Just now. The man who appeared in the heat of battle and saved Steven,” Thor said.

“He found the Winter Soldier?” Pietro said, confused.

“No,” his sister hissed. “That was him. That was Bucky.”

Pietro looked blank. “Who the fuck is Bucky?”

Wanda rolled her eyes.

“The man who rescued Captain Rogers was James Barnes, also known as Bucky, who was captured almost seventy years ago and brainwashed into becoming the Winter Soldier,” Vision explained. “He was also, as I understand it, Captain Rogers' closest friend.”

“And that's who Sam went after?” Pietro considered this for a moment. “Shit.”

The comm system crackled back into life just then. “Guys?” Sam said. “I have him.”

Steve had already leapt to his feet. The other Avengers fell silent, hands at their ears. Tony had thrown up a hand in the face of the police officer he had been yelling at, silencing the man.

“Is he alright?” Steve said. “Is he hurt? Where are you?”

“He's fine,” Sam said. “He's agreed to come back to my place in DC.”

“Is that safe?” Tony said tightly.

“I think so,” Sam said. “He's not malicious. He's just... confused.”

“Can I see him?” Steve said, heartbreakingly hesitant.

They heard a huge sigh over the comms. “I'm sorry,” Sam said. “Not yet.”

Natasha was at Steve's side in an instant, arm wrapped around his waist.

“I need a car,” Sam continued.

“I can bring you one,” Tony said.

“No,” Sam said. “I'm sorry, Tony, but I've seen pictures of your dad from back in the day. I don't want to confuse him any more than necessary. Not Nat, either, he's seen her before. Maybe Rhodey, or Clint?”

“I'll do it,” Rhodey said. “Any preferences?”

“Tough and fast.”

“You got it.” Rhodey looked to Tony for confirmation, who nodded at the parking garage for the tower.

Steve took a deep, shuddering breath. “Are you okay?” he said into the comm.

“I'm fine,” Sam promised. “I'm in the parking garage two blocks from the tower. The one Tony crashed into last month.”

“I know the one,” Rhodey said. “On my way.”

“Can you tell me how he looks?” Steve asked.

“Tired. A little hungry. He looks like he could use a shower, too. But he looks – I don't know. Lucid, maybe?”

“That's good,” Natasha said softly. Her comm was on, but she was talking to Steve and they all knew it.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “We can work with lucid.”

Everyone heard it, although it was left unspoken. They could work with lucid. What they couldn't handle was homicidal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot begins! Make sure to comment or leave kudos to let me know what you thought - it means the world to me!  
> As always, I'm on tumblr at bunnyspek.tumblr.com if anyone wants to drop by :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each of the Avengers had experienced an occasion when they were glad of Sam's extensive training in PTSD and other forms of trauma. Perhaps even more important than the training, however, was the knowledge that Sam too had his own crosses to bear. Steve wasn't the only one to have woken in the middle of the night screaming a dead man's name. But Barnes – shell wasn't the right word to describe him, not anymore. He was more like a reflection of someone in a broken mirror, recognizable, but scattered, missing pieces.  
> Sam wanted to help him. He just wasn't a hundred percent sure he knew how.

“We're here,” Sam said quietly, turning off the engine.

For a moment they just sat there in the driveway, Barnes staring straight ahead.

“Would you like to go inside?” Sam offered, cautiously. Barnes seemed to consider this, then nodded and opened his door.

They had driven four hours in tense silence, Sam simultaneously afraid of spooking his passenger and trying hard not to remember the last time he'd been on a highway with Barnes. Now, safely pulled into his own driveway, Sam took a deep breath and prepared for what he was about to do.

Tony had accused him a few times of slipping into “therapist mode” in discussions with him. Sam had refrained from asking Tony whether he might be projecting on these occasions, choosing instead to throw his hands up in surrender and take the role of friend rather than counselor. Still, each of the Avengers had experienced an occasion when they were glad of Sam's extensive training in PTSD and other forms of trauma. Perhaps even more important than the training, however, was the knowledge that Sam too had his own crosses to bear. Steve wasn't the only one to have woken in the middle of the night screaming a dead man's name. But Barnes – shell wasn't the right word to describe him, not anymore. He was more like a reflection of someone in a broken mirror, recognizable, but scattered, missing pieces.

Sam wanted to help him. He just wasn't a hundred percent sure he knew how.

He let them into the kitchen. Barnes immediately sat at the counter. Sam had the feeling he was awaiting orders.

“Would you like something to eat?” Sam said.

Barnes considered this and then nodded.

Sam checked the cupboards and was rather relieved to find any food at all. “Is pasta alright?”

Barnes nodded again. Sam looked for sauce and found none. He was about to ask if that was alright when he figured it was moot anyway and put a pot on to boil. He filled two large glasses of water from the tap and placed them down on the table, drinking from his first to prove that it was safe.

“So,” he said, with a light, conversational tone. “Do you want to tell me where you've been? Cause I've been looking for you everywhere, man.”

“I was here,” Bucky said after a long moment of silence. Sam wondered if his voice had always been so gravelly or if decades of little use had caused it to scrape against his throat. “For a little while. Then I- I went-”

A look of panic filled his face.

“Hey,” Sam said. “It's okay. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to.”

“It's all- It's all jumbled.” Bucky shook his head frantically. “It usually makes more sense-” He raised his hand, as though to smack his head, and Sam darted his out to catch him by the wrist. A slight shock rolled up his arm at the touch. Sam gently lowered the wrist back to the table and laid his hand on top of Barnes'.

“It's okay,” Sam murmured. “Look, you don't wanna talk, we don't talk. We can go watch jeopardy. You know that show?”

Barnes was staring down at Sam's hand on his, shock and bewilderment on his face. With a heartbreaking pang, Sam realized it was probably one of the first times in seventy years a touch had been kindness and not punishment.

“I know jeopardy,” he said slowly. “The quiz show.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “It's something of a sore topic in our house. People have been known to throw hammers at the TV if they disagree with an answer.”

Now Barnes was looking up at him with eyes full of cynical skepticism. “Hammers?”

“Thor is competitive to a fault,” Sam said, waving a hand to dismiss the topic. “TV's in here. Follow me.”

 

* * *

 

They all got the message at the same time, benefits of the Avengers group chat, which had been started for what Steve called “serious avengers communications” and had at this point devolved into a string of memes and emojis. Vision and Natasha were the main perpetrators, the first out of blind enjoyment of the characters and the second out of a mischievous delight in Steve's hatred of “that miserable frog mutant.”

There were no emojis used in response to Sam's terse, four word text.

_SAM: I'm here. Call later._

_STEVE: Okay. Keep me posted._

“I don't understand what is happening,” Pietro said after reading the texts for the twentieth time, irritably throwing pistachio shells off the roof.

“I don't either,” his sister said defensively. She folded her arms under her head and lay back to look at the sky.

“Nobody tells us anything,” Pietro said, lying back beside her. They spoke Romanian, just the two of them, giving the lonely rooftop the intimate feel of home. He shoved her lightly with a toe. “Can't you find out?”

She shook her head. “There's too many sounds. Nobody's thinking clearly.”

“You have to know something.”

Wanda sighed, her eyes going distant, lit from behind with a red glow. “Steve's with Natasha,” she said. “They're arguing – no. Steve just doesn't want to talk to her. She's leaving.” The glow faded. “He's gone back to whaling on the punching bag.

“Who is whaling on what?” a gentle voice said from above them. The Romanian was flawless, but the accent was British, cooler than Thor's boom. They looked over to see Vision floating down from the night sky.

“You don't know what's happening, do you?” Pietro said. Vision shrugged.

“Sam Wilson has taken a person of interest to his house in Washington DC.”

“I know that,” Pietro snapped. “Why has Sam taken him to Washington instead of here?”

“That, I do not know,” Vision said. “The matter seemed personal. I did not wish to intrude.”

He took a seat cross legged next to Wanda's prone form. She had raised one finger to draw red lights in the air, circles that expanded and floated away once they were completed.

“So the guy killed a few people,” Pietro said. “Natasha's killed more, I bet.”

“They think he killed a president,” Wanda said.

“Ah. That explains it.”

“What does?” Vision asked curiously.

“Americans take their presidents very seriously,” Pietro said.

Wanda rolled her eyes and sat up. “It's more than that,” she said. “I felt him. He felt – raw.”

“Raw how?” Vision said.

“There was so much noise inside his head. He couldn't understand any of it. It was all – too much, I think.”

Pietro and Vision exchanged a glance behind Wanda's back.

“You could relate, huh?” her brother said.

She stared out over the lawn, watching her wisps of red energy floating away. “Yes,” she said. “I could.”

 

* * *

 

The New Avengers Headquarters, as it was officially called, had started out as a sleek, polished, and professional base. The addition of ten superheroes, three kids, fifty-plus support staff, and some incredible nesting skills was rapidly turning it into a slightly cluttered home.

Nowhere was this more obvious than the three labs on the first floor. They had started out approximately the same – polished chrome, lab tables, holograms. Now each had acquired the distinct flavor of its resident genius. Tony's was full of wires and scrap metal, coffee cups and half drunk smoothies stacked precariously around half assembled robots and still sparking gauntlets. Jane's was a mess of papers and sketches, with at least three plates of completely untouched dinner lying around at any time and a pattern of glow in the dark stars on the walls where Thor and Darcy had arranged them. Bruce's was Natasha's favorite, neater than the rest, with multiple fuzzy blankets strewn over various chairs and a well worn couch against the wall where one could watch the rest of the lab with ease. Steve had painted a mural of the inside of a cell on one wall not long after Bruce had moved back in, chatting with Natasha while she lay on the couch reading Russian novels and Bruce calculated and experimented.

This night soft strains of indie folk rock wafted out of the lab instead of Bruce's usual classical, and Natasha walked in to find Jane sprawled on the floor chewing absently on a pen, various papers spread in front of her,. Bruce looked up from his microscope to smile softly at Natasha, who winked back, heading for the couch where Thor was sprawled. He was watching Jane pensively, his mind clearly elsewhere. He adjusted to let Nat sit next to him, wrapping a tree-trunk arm around her waist. She allowed herself a moment to appreciate the touch. Three years ago physical affection was something reserved for Clint and Laura exclusively. Now Thor's arm was a familiar comfort to her. She thought, rather smugly, that this showed an awful lot of personal growth.

“How is he?” Thor murmured.

Natasha shrugged. “Destroying punching bags by the dozen.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“I tried to,” she said. “Clint's watching him. He'll keep him from hurting himself, at least.”

“Perhaps I should go offer myself as a sparring partner.”

Natasha smiled up at him. “Yeah. That might be nice.”

He nodded and pushed himself up from the couch, bending to kiss the top of Jane's head as he left the room. Natasha watched him go before lying back on the couch and staring up at the ceiling.

_Even when I had nothing, I had Bucky._

Natasha had had her suspicions for a while. She was a spy who traded mostly in personal relationships. Her training had taught her to look at a room and see who was married to and sleeping with and in love with who. How to worm her way into those relationships and twist them to her own advantage.

Sometimes Natasha wished she hadn't been so good at her job.

She asked herself: if Clint had died when they were still together, what would she have done? Would the flame that had calmed to a glowing ember have gone out? Or would it have kept burning forever, brighter without the man himself there?

But what she would have done didn't matter. What mattered was what Steve, and whether the ember that Natasha knew had branded him for life still burned on.

_It isn't your concern,_ a cold voice in her head said in Russian. _Why do you care about him? About any of them?_

Another cold voice rolled around on the other's heels. _Is this love, Agent Romanoff?_

_I owe him a debt_ , she might have said once. _Love is for children. This isn't that._

She looked over at Bruce, pushing back his glasses, staring up at a model projected in the air.

Natasha Romanov had spent years living a cold, loveless life of lies and death. She was working to change that. Working to find something more like Steve and Sam, something based on honesty and appreciation and respect. Something based on early morning jogs and late night movie marathons, on inside jokes and the way the whole body lit up when skin brushed skin. Something based on love. Not just with Bruce, but with her team. Her friends.

But she was still, by nature, the kind of person to walk into a room and analyze the threats. See the problems before they occurred. Yesterday she would have said that Steve and Sam were as close to a perfect couple as she had ever seen. But today – Natasha could lie to others without her heart changing a beat. But she was always distinctly, brutally honest with herself, even when a lie would be kinder.

A lie might be kinder now, if she could find a way to tell it, might spare the man she had watched suffer so much to finally gain the ray of hope and peace that Sam had been. But the truth was too obvious to be denied, even silently, even in her own mind.

She loved Steve.

And Steve?

Steve loved James Buchanan Barnes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but I had to fight through a horrible case of writers block and then an ill-advised camping trip. Hopefully we'll get back into a somewhat regular update schedule after this!  
> As always, kudos and comments go a long way to brightening my day! Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That's awful,” Pietro said.  
> Steve stood, carried his bottle over to the recycling and chucked it in. “They're better than the ones when I'm falling.”  
> “Why is that?”  
> His eyes were clear and tortured as he looked back at Pietro. “When I fall? Bucky jumps.”

It was a bad night for everyone.

 

Sam Wilson stared up at his ceiling in DC, listening hard for creaks or footsteps in his hall, but all he heard was, at half past midnight, a low, agonized whimper from the guest room next door.

 

Steve Rogers tossed and turned, lost in dreams of falling. Helpless, he watched in terror as Sam plummeted to the ground, Bucky dropped through icy mountains, as Peggy (or was it Natasha?) toppled over backwards, pale hands staining red with the blood they were trying to hold into their stomachs-

 

Bruce stumbled into his room at midnight to find Natasha curled around his pillow, eyes empty and tired. He wrapped her up in his arms without a word, holding her until she fell into an uneasy sleep, muttering in Russian through her dreams.

 

Clint was awake, his wife asleep on his chest, as he watched the baby monitor on his nightstand and brooded over memories of his own mind being stolen from him.

 

Tony writhed his way through dreams of a ringing phone and screeching tires and Barnes's face, lit up by the headlights.

 

Pietro ran frantic circles around the track, so fast that to the passerby, he was all but invisible. Rhodey watched him, though Pietro did not know it. Rhodey had seen enough self-destructive assholes slamming their fists against concrete walls to know the signs, and to keep watch.

 

Wanda's dreams were the strangest of all, lying still and peaceful under the covers as outside the window Vision hovered in midair and counted stars.

_She wandered a dark hall, through which half lit figures passed her by without seeing. One's eyes glowed bright, clear, and they met hers for a moment, narrowing in suspicion – but she was already gone, moved halfway down the hall. A large wooden door stood in front of her. She raised a hand to open it and it slid through as easily as Vision's would. The rest of her followed._

_“You don't belong here.”_

_It was another dark room, too dark to see anything but the pale, thin face of the person who spoke to her. He was bright and clear, unlike the others, dark-haired and bony and dressed in a robe of simple green._

_“No,” Wanda said. “I don't think I do.”_

_He paced around her, eyes scanning her calculatedly. She took the opportunity to do the same._

_“Never speak first,” Natasha had told her. “You corrupt the evidence that way. Let them ask the questions, and you'd be surprised what you can learn.”_

_“You don't know how you got here, do you?” he said finally. Wanda gazed steadily at him._

_“Do you?”_

_“I can guess.” He waved a hand, green light blazing behind it. “You have magic.”_

_“I have neural-electric interfacing and telekinesis.”_

_“Bah.” He swept away haughtily. “You have magic. What you don't have is control.”_

_Wanda followed him. “How can you tell?”_

_“Because you're here.” He reached a giant chair, a throne, really, and draped himself over it. It was a regal seat, but it seemed to dwarf him rather than lend him its authority. “You allowed yourself to be swept up into the currents of my mind.”_

_“What does that mean?”_

_“It means I was meditating and you rudely interrupted.” He sighed and leaned forward. “What is your name, child?”_

_She hesitated before answering. “I am called – the Scarlet Witch.”_

_He scoffed. “Well. That's pretentious.”_

_She glared at him. “And you? What are you called?”_

_“The Scarlet Witch, you say? You can call me... the Emerald Trickster.”_

_“That's a ridiculous name.”_

_“So is Scarlet Witch for a girl who won't even call her powers magic.”_

_“Fine,” she said. “It's magic.” She stepped a little closer, unable to resist. “You understand it?”_

_“Of course I understand it. You ask too many questions.”_

_“Tell me about it. How to control it.”_

_“No.”_

_“Please.”_

_“Why should I?”_

_“Because no one else ever taught me.”_

_He stared down from his throne, eyes studying her. “How did you come by this power?”_

_She shrugged. “A man in a suit came to my brother and I. He offered us a chance to make a difference. Give us powers.”_

_“And you took it?”_

_“We were orphans who had spent years on the streets, fighting for every scrap we could get. Of course we took it. He was giving us a chance to be the ones in power.” She looked up at him. “Do you know what its like to live your whole life in shadow and suddenly be offered control of the light?”_

_He nodded slowly, a deep sadness in his eyes. “More than you know.”_

_“Then you can understand,” she said. “Why we took it.”_

_“But the power wasn't what you thought.”_

_“They understood it even less than I.” She stepped closer to the throne once more. “Teach me.”_

_“I can't teach you,” he said._

_“You're the only one I've ever met who understands it.”_

_“I can't teach you,” he insisted. “I'm poison. You'd be better off the way you are now?”_

_“Really?” she snapped, viciously. “Because I can not control any of it. I feel everything, all the time. Nothing is ever quiet anymore. I feel every hurt, every pain from my friends. I've hurt people, when I can't control it. And I- I felt my brother die!” She was crying now. She sat helplessly on the cold stone floor. “I asked for these powers, I volunteered out of vanity and pride. A belief that I could help my country defeat what I thought were its evils. And instead I signed its death warrant!” She sobbed. “I lost my brother. I lost the only thing I ever cared for and now that he's back – now he's back and I can't even trust my powers to save him!”_

_The room was silent except for her sobs._

_“I, too, lost a brother,” the trickster said softly. “It was pain worse than death, to know that I was the cause.”_

_“We suffered so much,” Wanda said. “I have to make it worth something. Or at least – I have to make it end.”_

_There was a long pause._

_“Lesson number one,” the trickster said. “You will never block it all out.”_

 

* * *

 

Pietro tore into the kitchen dripping with sweat and kicking up a breeze that gusted the papers on the fridge when he stopped in front of it, yanking it open to find a beer.

“Top shelf,” a low voice said from the shadows.

Pietro cursed low and long in Romanian, turning to see Steve sitting at the table with a bottle open in front of him.

“I think you're lucky I don't speak Romanian,” Steve said dryly.

Pietro grabbed a beer and sat opposite him. “I thought you couldn't get drunk.”

Steve shrugged. “I spiked it with Thor's mead.”

Pietro nodded. “Can I have some?”

Steve passed over the flask.

“I thought you were asleep,” Pietro said after a long sip.

“I woke up,” Steve said flatly. “Why are you awake?”

Pietro shrugged. “Bad night.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

They drank more in stoic silence.

“Was it a nightmare?” Pietro said, finally. “That woke you?”

Steve nodded, staring off into his bottle. “Bucky. Always Bucky.” He sighed. “I've been having nightmares about him since I found him on that operating table in nineteen forty three.”

“I hear Wanda,” Pietro said. Steve looked up at him, surprised. “We were kept in cells. In Hydra.” Pietro spun his bottle around his finger. “Steel walls, with concrete over them. I couldn't see her. But I could hear her. Screaming.” A false, hollow smile crossed his face, a mask slid over the pain behind his eyes. “I ran myself into the wall until they had to restrain me, trying to get to her.”

“That's what you dream about?” Steve said.

“Not if I'm tired enough,” Pietro said. “So I run. I run until my feet ache and I'm about to collapse, and then I don't hear my sister's voice when I put my head down on the pillow.” He looked up at Steve. “What about you? What are your dreams?”

Steve shrugged. “Usually they're him. Falling. Other people are there too, Sam, Nat. I can never save them. He always falls off the train. And I'm left there. Hanging onto that beam.”

“That's awful,” Pietro said.

Steve stood, carried his bottle over to the recycling and chucked it in. “They're better than the ones when I'm falling.”

“Why is that?”

His eyes were clear and tortured as he looked back at Pietro. “When I fall? Bucky jumps.”

 

* * *

 

Sam woke up at five.

At least he thought he woke up. The night had blended together into a steady stream of blankness, making it almost impossible to tell the difference between dozing and lying in the dark with his eyes closed.

He got up and headed to the kitchen. There was nothing in the fridge except a bottle of orange juice, which Sam threw out with a sigh. He looked out the window to see his neighbor's lights on.

He picked up his phone and dialed her number.

“Hey, Elaine? The lights were on. I didn't wake you, did I?”

Her voice was warm over the line. “Of course not, dear. I'm an early bird. When did you get back from your bigshot superhero job?”

“Just yesterday, actually.” He closed the refrigerator with a sigh. “Listen, I need a favor.”

“Of course.”

“Can I borrow some eggs? Probably like a whole carton. And bread, too, maybe?”

“No food in the house?”

“Not a crumb.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. I'll bring you some bacon, too.”

“Aw, Elaine-”

“It's my pleasure, dear.”

“You take good care of me.” His gaze fell on the closed door to his guest bedroom. “Hey, Elaine – do you still have that book Janice wrote about the Howling Commandos? 107 or whatever?”

“Doing some research on your boyfriend?” the old woman asked, amused.

“No, not like that. I've got a – friend, over who might like to read it.”

“Sure thing, dear. I'll bring that all over.”

“You're the best, Elaine.”

He steeled himself and then knocked on Bucky's door.

A grunt came out. Sam decided that was as close to an invitation as he was likely to get and pushed open the door.

“Hey,” he said, letting himself in. “Did you, I don't know, sleep well?”

Barnes raised his eyebrows skeptically from where he sat on the bed, fully dressed as though he hadn't even taken his clothes off to sleep. Maybe he hadn't.

“We need to get you some new clothes, at some point,” Sam said. “And probably a haircut. Or at least some shampoo.”

Barnes said nothing. Sam sighed. “Hey, I know. How bout a nice, warm shower, huh? I'll make breakfast.”

Bucky nodded slowly and rose. “Bathroom's right down the hall,” Sam said as Bucky passed him blankly. Sam waited until he heard the shower running to step into the hall himself.

The doorbell rang.

“Elaine,” he called, jogging to the front of the house, “you are a lifesaver.”

He pulled open the door and smiled down at the tiny dark-skinned woman in front of him. A cloud of gray hair and thick glasses gave her a stereotypically grandmotherly look, with the beaming grin to go with it.

“Now, Sam, I know you're busy,” she said, kissing him on both cheeks as he took the bags from her, “but three months without stopping back home? Oh, let me cook it, dear, a welcome present. You look exhausted. Pass me a frying pan?”

She began whirling through his kitchen, cracking eggs and frying bacon.

“Here's the book you wanted, by the way,” she said, dropping it into his hands. “Did you bring _you-know-who_?”

Sam smiled. “No, Steve's still in New York. How's Janice?”

“Still sleeping. Laziest woman alive, I always say. But still. I married her, I suppose I can't complain.”

“You know it's only five thirty, right? I think you can probably cut her some slack.”

“Pft. The sun's up, so why shouldn't I be? And you're up. And so's this young man.”

Sam whirled around in panic to see a dark figure standing in the doorway, slightly hunched, with his face hidden in shadow, but there could be no mistaking the gleam of silver beneath one sleeve.

“Hi there,” Elaine said chipperly, blithely unaware of Sam's distress. “You must be Sam's friend.”

There was a slight pause which to Sam felt like an eternity as he moved to stand between Elaine and Barnes as fast as he could, watching the other man's face stiffen with surprise and fear and then-

“Yes ma'am,” Bucky said quietly. “I'm... James.”

Elaine didn't seem to catch Bucky's slight hesitation over his name or the shock on Sam's face. “Well, you just sit yourself down and breakfast will be with you in a moment. Sam, dear? A word?”

He stepped over to her by the stove. “Is there anything untoward occurring here?” Elaine murmured, pushing the eggs around the pan.

“Elaine – of course not!”

“Good,” she said sternly. “Although I have to say. I thought you'd hit the pinnacle of manhood with Steven, but James there might give him a run for his money.” She winked. “If I played for that team...”

“I think we're all glad you don't,” Sam said, holding out a plate for her to scoop the eggs onto.

They sat down at the kitchen counter and dug in. In the warm glow of the kitchen, Bucky looked almost normal – a little gaunt, a little stubbly, but clean and slightly less – empty. He dug into breakfast with gusto, eating like a starving man, eyes locked on his plate.

“So,” Elaine said. “Sam tells me you're interested in the Howling Commandos?”

Bucky looked between her and Sam nervously, swallowing hard. “That's- that's right, ma'am.”

Elaine smiled. “Such nice manners. Well, dear, I brought over a book – gave it to Sam, right? - it'll tell you everything you want to know. My wife wrote it, you know. She was always a history buff. Grew up hearing stories about Captain America and the 107th from her uncle. She was so excited when they found him, and then Sam here brought him home for dinner – I swear, she nearly exploded with excitement.”

“I'll bet,” Bucky said, something like a smile playing along the corners of his mouth.

“Her uncle was Dum-Dum Dugan himself, you know,” Elaine said proudly. Bucky nearly spit out his eggs.

“Dugan had a niece?”

“Yes, and their families were very close. She even met Peggy Carter once. She was visiting her uncle when this commanding brunette woman barges in the door and starts berating him for something – really laying into him – and then she notices Janice and she just says-” Elaine paused, preparing herself for the punchline, “”Never, _ever_ trust a _man_ to do anything. Especially not this one.” And then she just walked out!”

Bucky really was smiling now. “That sure does sound like Carter.”

“Of course, Janice took _that_ advice to heart,” Elaine said with a chuckle. “Do you want more eggs, dear? You look as though you're starving.”

“Yes, please,” Bucky said cheerfully. Sam could only lean back in his seat and marvel.

 

They ushered Elaine out an hour later with promises that they'd stop by for some cake sometime soon. As soon as the door was closed Sam turned to Bucky with a stare.

“Who the hell was that?” he said, shocked.

Bucky shrugged. “I don't know.” Then he smiled again, slightly crookedly, sending a trill through Sam's stomach. “I guess it was James.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me know what you thought and thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Part Two! I hope you're excited, because I'm really looking forward to this.  
> This is the sequel to Through the Valley of Death, but it should stand relatively on its own.  
> If you like what you see, follow me on tumblr at bunnyspek, and make sure to let me know what you thought in comments!


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